THEY TOIL

In roar, red hot furnaces burn,
they fight with fire and earn.
The stones melt and not men,
and they labour alone in pain.

With coal and tar, pitch they make,
paving easy roads for people's sake.
The smoothen the path we tread,
drain their sweat for daily bread.

Through centuries their hopes foiled,
yet with honesty they always toiled.
Grief, betrayal and shattered hope,
a revolt is in making with no scope!

Prasenjit©1997-2012

BENGALI NEW YEAR

All the days of the year,
is going to pass away soon.
For every smile and a tear,
is nothing but Almighty's boon.

Year garlanded like flowers,
to make up beautiful days.
We work, we suffer - all ours,
He listens to all who prays.

Twelve months and the seasons,
will pass and again come by.
This flavour is full of reasons,
a 'failure' will have another try!.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

AGAINST WAVES

Most of us walk in the crowd,
in an uprising or protest any.
Handful of them who are proud,
go against atrocities of many.

They wade against the rough,
and face the storms alone.
In time they are proven tough,
thus stand out and get known.

Most of us bask in winter sun,
while 'few' take heat of July.
While many cowards hide and run,
it is the 'few' that we always rely.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

MATCHES

There in the matchbox lay,
some matches ready to use.
Would burn into ashes gray,
when they would themselves fuse.

One tiny spark and a flare,
would be a message big enough.
A revolt coming through prayer,
will be greater than smoky puff.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

I FELT

A child is born today,
saying something in his cries.
It was on the first of May,
saw revolt in innocent eyes.

Feeble though was his voice,
strongly clenched was his fist.
In birth he had no choice,
except hue and cry in gist.

Soft, sweet whispers today,
will tomorrow ring the bell.
This child in afternoon of May,
in future will be a 'story-to-tell'.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

THOUGHTS

It is a story of one fine day,

nearing eve the semi red sun.

Was just on homeward way,

and kids in park having fun.

Shy whispers and drooping arms,

was all that I could then see.

Stolen glances and lovely charms,

is what teenage seems to be.

Of the drooping arms I told,

have wrinkled faces as of now.

They are now, not so bold,

one day in dusk they would bow.

This is how the time goes,

as if from dawn to dusk.

Smell fading like wilting rose,

and a man changes in the mask!

Prasenjit©2012

THE KIDS

It will be springtime soon,
and tulips will be in bloom.
Fragrant roses in late noon,
will cast away the gloom.

Some kids play on streets,
while their mothers keep calling.
Fun and joy to them greets,
while dry leaves are falling.

In midday the sun on the rise,
and they in despair do retreat.
Some protest with hue 'n' cries,
and keep playing on the street.

Prasenjit©1997-2012